This Man Who Saved You
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: You swallow that lump stuck in your throat and you pretend that you're fine. But you're not, you're really not and you can't bear to accept that. /Angsty as anything. Slight Hayffie. MJ-spoilers.


**This Man Who Saved You**

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><p><em>"I'm sorry,"<em> he says. "I'm sorry I left you, Effie." His words come out in a mess, stumbling upon each other and not as neat as you would want them to be.

You swallow that lump stuck in your throat and you pretend that you're fine. But you're not, you're really not and you can't bear to accept that.

"It's okay," you say. You look down at your wasted wrists; bones, they are, bones and flesh with nothing left to fair the storm yet to come. You see the scars on your wrists and you bite your bottom lip. He can't see them, can't see you weak. With weakness brings pain and so you pull the sleeves of your uniform up and over them.

"It's okay, Haymitch," you say again. Your throat is dry and it hurts so bad. They're taking away your morphling soon, and _good_, you think,_ I can't get addicted now. _

You stare at the bottle in his hand and you wonder where the hell he managed to get that from. You're looking in your mirror, because you can't look at him in the eye. You notice you can't look at _anyone_ in the eye, because face it, every time you did for the past couple months, you got hurt.

You can't get hurt inside the walls of District 13, against the rules.

He steps closer to you. Closer and closer and you're about to cry. But you harden up and lock those damned tears inside you. Crying isn't allowed either, not with Haymitch involved. He's not good with tears, you know that.

He touches your shoulder and you jerk back. You can't help it, cause your nerves are all a bit fucked up now. They're broken and raw, just like you. You mumble an apology. You've been apologizing for a long, long time now. He looks at you in the mirror.

You see he's even more sorry than he was before, if that's even possible.

"I ain't gon' hurt ya, Effie."

You heard that quite a lot and you're pretty much used to those words now. But the thing is, you can't trust it anymore. How can you?

You suck at pretending. He sees that you're apprehensive and it bothers him. Of course it does. It would bother you too, and hell, it _does_.

He smashes the bottle against the wall next to the vanity and red rivers trail along the faults of his knuckles. He's angry. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming; you're trying to keep it all in. He sees you not reacting and it hurts him. He knows you're scared, the thing is he doesn't care right now.

He looks at you. "_Damn it, Effie,_" he roars. "Talk to me, _please! _Can't stand your silence, you damned harpy, can't stand it no more!" He looks at you like a lost child. "I can't lose you too, woman."

You stay quiet. That's what you're good at. You look into his eyes through the mirror. They're raw, red-hot with feral anger. _He's mad._ You can recognize the bloodlust for violence in anyone's eyes miles and miles away. You shield yourself by pulling yourself away. _You can't trust anyone._

He keeps on looking at you for seconds, for minutes, waiting. Waiting until he realizes that you're not going to do anything. He paces back to the wall, banging it with his bleeding fist. Then he does it again, except this time you're sure he's gone and broken it now, with punching drywall and all.

"I ain't one of them _cowards_," he says, quieter now. He turns back to you. "I ain't meaning to hurt you." He looks away. "I just want you back. Don't go ahead and run away. I can't lose you, not now."

He wants you to turn around and look at him, in the eyes like a proper woman should. He wants you to tell him that you're okay and that he can go now. He can stop pretending to care. But he knows just as well as you do that is never going to happen.

You look at yourself in the mirror, and he's behind you now. He presses his hands against your back. You jump — but it's just instinct, stop beating yourself up — and then relax. You're very aware that he's not going to hurt you and that he's safe territory. But you're not going to turn around, because you can't trust a man anymore. Especially not one with vices.

You sum up the strength to cross your hand over to his, and you keep it there. On his, where it should be. You're a team, always been one. And teammates count on each other.

Inhale, exhale. Step by step. Take your time.

He leads you out of the seat you're in. You can't look at him, though. Still can't. You're still facing the mirror. So you keep your stare on the jagged, frayed line that mars your right cheek. Nothing a good amount of foundation can't fix.

You realize, then, how far you've come. How imperfect you are now. Nothing's right, everything's wrong. The first tears come rolling down. You collapse to your knees, and you're sucking in your sobs as if that'll help. You feel like an _idiot_ because you couldn't even stay strong for just this once. Then you run out of air and you feel even stupider because you went ahead and forgot to breathe.

He's right behind you still, his arm around your waist. He's keeping you close to him and to reality. With his other hand, he draws back your cropped, mangy bangs. It makes you feel a bit better, but nothing can stop the tears from flowing right now.

You keep on trying to stop and you sound _ridiculous_. You don't understand why you're behaving like this, it's not good for anyone. Not good for you because you're just being weak. Not good for him cause he hates crying. Lips press against the nape of your neck, and while it's meant to comfort, it just makes you feel worse. You're more of a mess than you were before. And that's saying a whole lot.

"S'alright, Effs, you can stop pretending," he whispers, and you want to believe you can. He feels you still trying to keep yourself together and he sighs, pulling you closer. "It don't bother me anymore. _Stop_ pretending, you're just making yourself worse."

Then it hits you: you're crying, and he's actually letting you. He's not beating you for it. It takes a while, but you do just that. You stop acting like you're okay. His hold on you tightens and you grip his arm, pulling yourself around to bury your head against his chest. You can't handle much of anything at the moment. You can't even handle yourself anymore.

He can, though, and that's enough for you to stop pretending.

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><p><strong>AN:** 2nd Person POV in terms of Effie? I'm back guys. Review, I really need them and appreciate every single one. Love y'all.


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